


like citrus

by featherx



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Minor Caspar von Bergliez/Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert, Mutual Pining, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21930559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherx/pseuds/featherx
Summary: Trying to woo someone who is not even aware he is being wooed is, in fact, much more difficult than Linhardt had expected.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 20
Kudos: 235





	like citrus

**Author's Note:**

> ferdihardt are christmas colors. so.  
> semi-dedicated to [@DiOPPIO](https://twitter.com/dioppio) on twitter because their art got me into this ship anyway so yeah! merry christmas!

“Your tea is as excellent as always, Ferdinand.”

Watching Ferdinand light up is always endearing—his eyes widen a little first, as if in surprise, and then his grin spreads across his face like a flower in full bloom. It’s a bit like looking at the sun, in the way that it hurts Linhardt’s eyes if he stares for too long. “Thank you! I must say, this was harder to acquire than I thought. I had to go down to the marketplace everyday to see if the merchant selling Angelica tea would come visit again.”

Linhardt hides a smile behind his cup. “You went through such lengths for some tea?”

“Not just some tea,” Ferdinand argues, “your _favorite_ tea. I cannot keep inviting you to these and expect you to drink something you do not even like!”

Linhardt’s heart leaps into his throat.

“It is a noble’s duty to pay attention to others’ preferences and adjust accordingly, after all.”

His heart settles dejectedly back into his chest. “Ah, yes,” Linhardt sighs, “of course.”

Trying to woo someone who is not even aware he is being wooed is, in fact, much more difficult than Linhardt had expected.

“Pointless. This is all pointless.” Linhardt lies face-down on his desk, staring at the wood grains and wishing they could tell him what in Fodlan is he doing wrong. “He never understands a word I say. I could strip naked in front of him and he would give me his coat because I would be _cold._ ”

Caspar pats his back reassuringly, or at least that’s what Linhardt thinks he does—he smacks Linhardt way too hard, and his back just stings with even more pain than before. “Come on, you’ll get there eventually. You both will! I bet he’s just taking his time.”

“Taking his time with _what?_ ”

“Uh, I don’t know. Getting more comfortable or something?” Caspar weakly suggests. “Maybe you should be more straightforward. You know, not _stripping-naked_ level of straightforward, but… oh!” he exclaims, and his excitement prompts Linhardt into reluctantly lifting his head from the table. “I get it! You should give him flowers!”

Linhardt stares at him. “Flowers.”

“Yeah. Flowers.” Caspar grins, like there’s nothing at all wrong with that statement. “I got Ashe flowers once, these pretty violets. He totally liked them, keeps them in a vase in his room and stuff!”

“Well, good for you.” Linhardt rests his chin back on the desk. _Flowers._ He hadn’t really given that much thought—gifts, and the effort put in thinking of them, had never been his style. He’d only ever bothered giving Caspar birthday gifts, most of which consisted of food, and frankly Linhardt doesn’t even know what Ferdinand would like. Does he have a favorite flower? He’d never mentioned it before. Not like Linhardt can remember any of their conversations being related to flowers.

Still, a bouquet of flowers is an undeniably romantic action, isn’t it? Not even Ferdinand could think of it as a friendly gesture. Linhardt forces himself to get off the bed and prowl through his room—there’s a book on flower language around here somewhere.

“Cosmos flowers!” Ferdinand exclaims. He doesn’t take it from Linhardt yet, only leans closer to smile over the bouquet. Frankly, a smiling Ferdinand framed with a bundle of bright orange flowers is far too much sunshine for Linhardt to handle, but he says nothing. “They are beautiful! Did you tend to them yourself? You were in the greenhouse more often than usual the past few weeks.”

“Oh, um… yes. I did.” He’d tried to enlist the help of Professor Byleth, but after the first batch of saplings had (accidentally) been crushed by the Sword of the Creator, Linhardt had decided to restart by himself.

“How unusually diligent of you,” Ferdinand says. Linhardt’s not sure if that’s supposed to be a compliment or an insult, or maybe both in one package. “But these do look lovely! Perhaps if you put as much effort into your training as you seem to have in caring for these, you would—”

“Watering these every few days can hardly be put on the same level as _training,_ ” Linhardt mumbles. “And could you take these off my hands already? My arms are aching.”

Ferdinand huffs and does so, his expression not wavering an inch. “This is exactly what I am talking about! You barely held them up for a minute and already you begin to tire. Where shall I put these?”

Linhardt blinks. “What? Put what?”

“The flowers?” Ferdinand lifts the bouquet up like they’re nothing more than a bag of foul-smelling fertilizer. “Surely they are meant to be _somewhere?_ ”

“They’re…” Linhardt has to pause before speaking again, else his voice might actually, legitimately crack. “They’re for _you._ They’re a gift. From me. To you.”

Ferdinand’s expression shifts from confused to elated in all of half a second. “A gift? Well! Why didn’t you say so earlier!”

“I—did.”

“You did not,” Ferdinand huffs. “You shoved them in my face without a word.”

Linhardt doesn’t quite remember if that’s what happened—his thoughts are so shaken up that they’re all over the place and far too much effort to rearrange. At any rate, he watches as Ferdinand smiles over the bouquet again, something new in his expression, like—fascination, maybe, or… whatever. Linhardt’s usually fairly decent at analyzing expressions, and Ferdinand wears all his emotions on his sleeve, but the softness to his eyes is something Linhardt can’t quite place.

Maybe… _maybe…_

“What a kind gift,” Ferdinand finally says. He touches one of the petals, so caring Linhardt’s almost jealous. “Thank you very much, Linhardt.”

“Oh… you’re welcome.”

Birdsong echoes around them. It occurs to Linhardt that this is the perfect time to tell him how he feels—because isn’t this what this whole thing was for? He didn’t make the effort to go to the greenhouse everyday just to _not_ put the flowers to some use. But the smile on Ferdinand’s face, the fascination in his gaze, the way he’s still touching the flower so _tenderly—_

Linhardt mutters some excuse about studying and slips away. He had come so close to saying it that he can still taste the words on his tongue, bitter-bittersweet.

“I would say I pity you,” Hubert tells him, idly stirring his cup of coffee, “but you did willingly bring this upon yourself, so. I do not.”

Linhardt buries his face in his textbook. “I did _no such thing._ ”

“You openly told him he was fine the way he is,” Hubert dryly points out. “If you did not want to fall head over embarrassing heels for him—”

“Oh, quiet. None of this was willing. I did not fall head over pathetic heels of my own volition.” Linhardt lifts his head just long enough to take a sip of tea. Not Angelica. He suppresses a sigh—Hubert doesn’t know his favorite. Then again, Hubert doesn’t even _like_ tea, so he supposes it’s a surprise Hubert has teabags in his room at all. “What would you do?” Linhardt asks, replacing his face back on his book. “If you were in my unfortunate shoes.”

He can _hear_ Hubert roll his eyes. “But I—”

“ _Don’t_ say ‘but I’m not,’ being deliberately unhelpful isn’t cute. Humor me for once.”

“Perhaps you should poison his drink. That would certainly get his attention.”

Again, Linhardt lifts his head from the desk just long enough to glare at him. “You mean the _authorities’_ attention.” He thinks about the idea for a moment, if only to entertain himself. What are the sorts of poisons _just_ dangerous enough that Ferdinand would need his help, and Linhardt would just so happen to know how to heal him, and then Ferdinand would tenderly touch his face after whispering a reverent _thank you…_

“What are you thinking of?” Hubert asks. Linhardt blinks, and belatedly realizes he’s been staring off into the space, probably with an idiotic dreamy expression to match. “On second thought, perhaps it’s better you keep that to yourself. I’d rather not know.”

“Ngh. Whatever.” Linhardt stares back down at his tea—then looks back up with a thunderclap of realization. “That’s it. What if I invite him out to town? We could spend time in teahouses or browse novelty shops or whatever he likes. And then we could sit in the local library and read books together…”

Hubert looks disgusted. “Why in your right mind would you do that?”

“Have you never heard of _going out,_ Hubert? Well, I suppose your complexion answers that question for me.”

“Oh, do whatever you like.” Hubert finishes his cup of coffee and stands up, sweeping away Linhardt’s empty teacup as well. “But try to keep from being too disappointed. I’d hate for you to come sulking back in here and asking me for more tea I evidently do not have.”

The perfect time to ask Ferdinand out comes in the early morning. Linhardt has also never thought he would use the phrases “the perfect time” and “early morning” in the same sentence.

Ferdinand goes on morning jogs, which had not surprised Linhardt in the least when he had learned about it a few months ago. They had been talking about an important exam coming up the next day, and Linhardt had fantasized about intentionally oversleeping just to miss it. Ferdinand, obviously, had taken that seriously and promptly banged on his door the next morning as soon as the sun was in the sky, waking him up and dragging him to the classroom.

Then he had done it the next morning. And the next. And the next.

So now it’s something of a habit, for Ferdinand to finish his jog right outside the dorms, then wake Linhardt up and walk him to class. Which is… actually nice. Linhardt can’t say he particularly enjoys having his sleep be cut short, but after the first few days, Ferdinand had started bringing him tea to drink on the way to the classroom. Which is even nicer, and rather sweet, considering it means he takes the effort to boil the water in either his room upstairs or in the dining hall five minutes away. And because it’s always still unbearably early when they get to the classroom, the two of them get a few minutes alone with each other…

Not that anything ever actually happens, Linhardt thinks forlornly. They usually just talk about whatever comes to mind, which ranges from the day’s homework to horseshoes to Crests, among others. They never stare lovingly into each other’s eyes or accidentally brush hands or touch each other’s hair, or…

 _Ugh._ He curls up beneath the blankets and buries his face in his pillow. This is awful. Just _awful._ Linhardt’s never thought about things like these before, nor has he ever _wanted_ them, so why _now?_ And with _Ferdinand,_ of all people? When he and Caspar were younger, they used to do anything to get away from Ferdinand’s hour-long speeches about being the perfect noble. Whenever they couldn’t, well… Linhardt can still very vividly remember falling asleep more than once in the middle of his spiels. Even now, he still catches himself accidentally dozing off.

Though that’s been happening less and less, because even if he isn’t always interested in what Ferdinand is saying, just looking at him and watching him speak is…

“Linhardt!” Three knocks, perfectly timed, exactly as the sunlight begins to chase off the evening cold. “Good morning!”

Linhardt stays put for another minute, just to pretend he hadn’t already been awake and waiting, then musters up enough energy to get up and unlock the door. Ferdinand stands there, bright and smiling as ever, sweat from his run still glistening off his forehead. Every morning, Linhardt has to resist the inane urge to wipe it off for him; today is no different. “Good morning. Sit down first.”

“Thank you.” Ferdinand sets the cup of tea down on the desk in the room while Linhardt meanders over to his bathroom. “You seem more awake today! Were you already up before I came in?”

“No…” Linhardt yawns, grateful he doesn’t even have to fake it. Speaking practically, he has no reason to lie, but it’s still too embarrassing to let Ferdinand know Linhardt’s become accustomed enough to his presence that he actually looks _forward_ to waking up in the mornings, something Linhardt had certainly never thought possible before.

He thinks about that as he brushes his teeth and stares in the mirror at his tangled, uncombed hair. _When did I become like this,_ he wonders— _this_ being all stupid and lovestruck and awake. Linhardt could have sworn he had promised himself he’d never wake up early for any man.

Huh. Look at him now.

“Go to town with me,” Linhardt says, as soon as he steps out of the bathroom. He thinks Ferdinand might have been in the middle of saying something, but right now his heart is beating too fast and too loud for him to hear anything else.

Ferdinand blinks. “Oh, alright. Gladly. When?”

“Wh… What, just like that?”

“I shall happily go anywhere you like with you, Linhardt,” Ferdinand says, so casually and so cheerily that Linhardt almost passes out on the spot. “But when? I must know so I may adjust my schedule accordingly. And what is the occasion?”

“We can go today, after class. And there’s no occasion,” Linhardt says. He lifts the cup of tea to his mouth and takes a long sip to think a little more carefully about his next words. “I just… wish to spend time with you.”

Ferdinand stares at him, looking so confounded that Linhardt thinks if he had been holding something, it would have crashed onto the floor now. “I also heard there’s a new teahouse opening up,” Linhardt hurries to add, hoping against all hope that a new teahouse is actually opening up, “and I thought you might want to see what they have there. To… expand your horizons. Um, why do you look so shocked?”

“I… I have never been asked on an outing before!” Ferdinand blurts out, voice a pitch higher than the norm. “I’m not quite sure what to say!”

“You don’t have to yell, for one.”

“Apologies,” Ferdinand squeaks. He fumbles with his hands for a moment, as if to unsure on what to do with them, before settling on taking Linhardt’s wrist in hand. Linhardt almost falls out of his own skin. _Is this it? Is this it?_ Has Ferdinand _finally_ realized—

“You simply must show me around!” he chirps. “I’ve only ever had time to go to the marketplace by myself, after all. Why, we should bring the others with us too! I know Lorenz would love to evaluate a new teahouse. And it would do Bernadetta good to go out of her room once in a while!”

Linhardt wants to sink into the floor and never come out alive. But he can’t, so he settles for nodding stiffly, only to realize what he’s agreed to. “Wait, Ferdinand—”

“I cannot wait!” Ferdinand exclaims, now grabbing both of Linhardt’s wrists. “I shall spread the word! Let us meet up with everyone by the gates later! Perhaps we can even ask the professor if they would like to come as well. Thank you, Linhardt! Ah, but we should get to class first—it would not do to be late.”

Linhardt stares at him. “Right,” he manages, at length. “Yes. Of course.”

 _He could have at least held my hands,_ Linhardt thinks, staring down at his wrists. Ferdinand had gripped them so tightly, there’s a faint red imprint on his pale skin. _That would have made this mess of a conversation worth it._

In the end, almost half the student body go out together—Linhardt trails dejectedly along with Edelgard and Hubert while Ferdinand flits from person to store to person. Hubert doesn’t say _I told you so,_ which Linhardt is thankful for, but his expression does it for him, which Linhardt is not so thankful for. “Are you sure you worded your request correctly?” Hubert eventually asks. “Perhaps he misunderstood. He is prone to doing that.”

“I was _specific_ when I said I wanted to spend time with him,” Linhardt grumbles. He can see Caspar and Ashe a few ways away, talking and laughing between themselves, their hands brushing each other’s every odd step. Goddess, Linhardt wishes _he_ had a functional relationship too. “He went ahead and invited the rest of the academy himself. Even the _professor_ is here.” Granted, he hasn’t seen Professor Byleth since they had passed by the fish market, but the point remains.

Edelgard gives him a worried look. “Well, why don’t you go talk to him now? You could bring him somewhere away from everyone else rather than… sulking here and feeling sorry for yourself.”

Linhardt casts a look around the street and finds Ferdinand’s vibrant hair fairly easily—for the first time in the past half hour he’s alone, looking through a selection of riding boots. “Wish me luck,” he says, before hurrying off to Ferdinand’s side before anyone else can distract him.

“Yes,” he hears Hubert say; “you sorely need it.”

Ferdinand looks entirely absorbed in observing that he jolts a little when Linhardt sidles up next to him. “Linhardt! Finally,” he says. At Linhardt’s confused look, he hurries to add, “I was wondering why you seemed so intent on avoiding me! After going through the trouble of arranging this.”

“I wasn’t… avoiding you,” Linhardt says, knowing full well he was. “In any case, you were always with someone else, so it was more like I couldn’t find a good time to approach you.” He tries subtly steering them to walk over to the nearby library, relief washing over him when Ferdinand follows without a word.

“Oh. That is good.” Ferdinand sounds oddly solemn, and mutters, “I thought you perhaps…”

He trails off, leaving uncomfortable silence between them, and Linhardt carefully prompts, “Perhaps what?” The library is in sight now, though it doesn’t look like Ferdinand’s noticed.

“I thought you might not want to speak with me,” Ferdinand says, all in one breath, and immediately follows that up with, “But that’s a silly thought! We are friends, after all, are we not?”

“Yes,” Linhardt automatically replies. He’s long grown used to stopping himself from adding _though I wish terribly we were more_ after that. Then the rest of Ferdinand’s words sink in his head, and he turns to face him. “Ferdinand, I—”

“Oh, look, the library,” Ferdinand cuts in, grabbing Linhardt’s wrist again and nearly wrenching his arm out of his socket as he pulls Linhardt forward. Linhardt stumbles and only just manages to steady himself on Ferdinand’s shoulder. “Come! I am sure there are a number of books in here the one at the academy does not have.”

“Wait—”

Ferdinand tugs on his arm, the look on his face silently pleading, and Linhardt has no choice but to acquiesce.

The library is blessedly calm and devoid of other people, with only the librarian at the counter for company; Ferdinand eagerly seeks out the books on display while Linhardt makes a beeline for the nearest couch. He trusts Ferdinand to get him something that’ll keep him awake later, but for now he wants nothing more than to close his eyes and block out the rest of the world, if only for a little while—the day has been nothing short of exhausting.

He feels the weight shift beside him, and peers at the volumes Ferdinand has stacked in his arms. “Ancient politics?”

“It is my duty as the prime minister’s son to educate myself on these topics,” Ferdinand primly responds. “Are you about to fall asleep? Let us stay here a moment, then. The others will not miss us.”

“Hmm. I’m surprised you aren’t harrying me to walk around more, now that we’re outside the monastery.”

“I _should,_ frankly, but I know your body constitution is not accustomed to so much exercise in so little time! I am not a merciless taskmaster, if you must know.”

“I don’t know,” Linhardt says, letting his voice curl at the ends of the words as he shifts closer to Ferdinand, “that doesn’t sound so bad.”

Instead of just about any of the reactions Linhardt had been hoping to get, Ferdinand just gives him a confused look. “Linhardt, are you so sure about that? Edelgard herself already runs you ragged all the time, does she not? You two are always getting into petty arguments because of—”

Linhardt sighs and moves away, leaning against the arm of the couch instead and staring into the middle distance, idly wondering when his life had spiraled so terribly out of control. “Never mind. Anyway, I’m glad we finally have the time together for ourselves,” he says, trying to sound as meaningful as possible.

Ferdinand brightens. “I, too, feel the same! I have never quite met someone who values their time with me as much as I do with them. It is… a pleasant feeling.”

“What… do you mean?”

“Oh. Well.” Ferdinand looks awkward now, toying with the corner of a page on the book propped open on his lap. “I did not have many friends, before I enrolled in the Officers Academy. Even now, I… in any case, it is not a concern! It is simply… something I am unaccustomed to. Being with others.”

“But you get along fine with everyone,” Linhardt says. He sits up a little straighter, previous drowsiness chased away by curiosity. “Caspar, Petra, Lorenz… Flayn is fond of you as well, I believe.” Normally he’s not one for comforting others or whatever, but he tries to tell himself this isn’t so much _comforting_ as it is _stating facts,_ which is something he, at least, has plenty of experience in.

Ferdinand frowns. The expression looks terribly out of place on his usual energetic self that Linhardt has the irrational urge to smack the downwards curve off his lips, though how he’d do that, he doesn’t know. “That is true,” he manages. “I do… _get along_ with them, yes. But they will always have someone they value more. Caspar has you. Petra has Bernadetta. Lorenz has Claude. Flayn has her brother. I? I am not anyone’s first choice.”

The words are said so quietly that Linhardt has to strain his ears to hear them. He immediately wishes he didn’t, because then he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget it—the shame in his voice, the trembling timbre, the downcast gaze.

 _I am not anyone’s first choice._ They echo in Linhardt’s head, and he thinks they will again, long after today.

“You—” Linhardt swallows. He is not a liar—Caspar has been, and always will be, his best friend—and Ferdinand would not fall for it anyway. But what can he say? _It isn’t such a bad thing—_ only someone who has no idea what it feels like to be in Ferdinand’s shoes would say something like that. _Someday you’ll be someone’s first choice—_ what kind of empty promise is that? And how is it his place to make it? What words are left for him to use, to pretend he understands?

In the end, Linhardt says nothing. He rests his hand atop Ferdinand’s instead, in the hopes that’s enough, and Ferdinand sighs. “My apologies. I did not mean to…”

“Don’t apologize,” Linhardt says. “Let’s stay here a while. Just the two of us. We’ll go back to the rest later.”

Ferdinand nods, and his eyes have a little more of their usual shine to them. “Wonderful idea.”

Linhardt ends up shuffling closer and dozing off on Ferdinand’s shoulder—in his sleep it feels like the warmth wraps around him, comforting and welcoming, and he briefly entertains himself with the idea of Ferdinand wrapping an arm around his shoulders to keep him close. 

It’s silly. Ridiculous. Impossible. But he toys with the thought all the way into his dreams.

Unfortunately, nothing particularly changes about their relationship after that. There is no grand confession of love, there is no holding of hands, there is definitely no kissing. And Linhardt still finds himself at a complete loss on how to communicate any of this to Ferdinand, who appears to be as dense as ever.

“I think he might actually be doing it on purpose,” Linhardt says, one day. “The thing is, I can’t think of a reason for him to do that when he doesn’t need to. Unless he knows how I feel and doesn’t like me _back,_ so he’s trying to take the long way around and dodge my feelings until he has no choice but to actually reject m—”

“You are thinking too much about this,” Petra tells him. They’re in the training grounds, because it’s really only Petra who gets up in the early hours of the morning like this. Linhardt had woken up at the usual time, remembered Ferdinand was out on a mission helping the Blue Lions as requested by one of the professors, and had lain in bed feeling lonely and sorry for himself until he eventually dragged himself over here, where he knows Petra welcomes company. “I think he truly is simply dense. There is no way around denseness, as far I am aware.”

“Thank you for your wisdom.”

“You are welcome!” She shoots him a smile as she swings the training sword for what feels like the hundredth time. “Hmm… if you are looking for suggestions, perhaps you can duel him. Is that not how plenty of men communicate?”

Linhardt sighs. “First of all, I’m not Felix. Second of all, do you _want_ him to trounce me? I can barely hold a sword without falling over.”

Petra does a number of complicated-looking maneuvers that make Linhardt tired just watching. “Would you not _like_ to be trounced by him?”

“What? Of course not—” Linhardt is suddenly struck by the thought of Ferdinand striking him down with the butt of his lance, then straddling his torso and pinning his arms down to prevent him from attacking. Apart from how much energy that would take, the idea is… “Huh. Hm. Er… You know, maybe you have a point.”

“Of course I do.” Petra leaps up, swings her sword, and decapitates the training dummy clean in half. “But I do not recommend you actually do it, now that I am thinking about it. You might break a bone, at best.”

Linhardt almost chokes on his own spit. “ _At best?_ ”

“At worst—”

“No! Please, I’d rather not hear it.”

When others start trickling into the training grounds, Linhardt slips away and heads for the greenhouse instead—it’s usually quieter there, and rarely anyone comes in this early to water some plants. He sighs again, breathing in the morning chill. Maybe Ferdinand is back from the mission… if he remembers right, it was essentially to take care of some bandits causing trouble in one of the nearby villages, but it had happened late at night, so who knows when they would be coming back…

It’s cold. Linhardt wishes he had enough initiative to make himself his own cup of tea, but he thinks it would still be deathly freezing no matter what.

Bernadetta is in the greenhouse when he arrives, tending to a pitcher plant that looks entirely too dangerous for anyone to be taking care of it. “Morning.”

“L-Linhardt! Good morning.” She doesn’t shy away from him as often now, but she still has an expression on her face that clearly says she’s ready to bolt if he so much as looks at her funny. “Er… w-what are you doing up so early?”

Linhardt spots a nearby chair and drapes himself over that. So much walking first thing in the morning has him already feeling sick. “Ferdinand.”

“Ferdinand? But he’s away…” Bernadetta makes a little _oh_ sound when realization hits. “I… see.”

“Do _you_ perhaps have any ideas on how I can tell him how I feel?” Linhardt asks, then shudders at his own words. He sounds so disgustingly cheesy and cliche and _enamored_ that he feels like the protagonist of the trashy romance novels Dorothea always rips to pieces halfway through.

Bernadetta perks up. “You could write him a poem! Oh, or knit him a scarf! I think red would look good on both of you. And it’s almost the Ethereal Moon—there’s bound to be snow! You could give it to him when he’s cold, or maybe offer to share…” She giggles into her hands. Linhardt can’t help but stare—this is the most animated he’s seen her since the school year had started.

“What did you say about a poem?” Linhardt weakly asks. Writing one of those silly things sounds marginally easier than knitting an entire scarf.

“Oh, well…” She tilts her head to the side, pondering for a moment. “Like a love letter, but make it poetic? I guess? You could write about how he looks when he smiles or something… and at the end mention how you’d like to be together forever…”

“Right. Never mind.” Just the thought of putting all _that_ to pen is sickening. He already disgusts himself with the kinds of thoughts he gets—like how Ferdinand’s smile can rival the sun, and other equally stomach-churning things like that—that he has little desire to have physical evidence of it, lest someone like Hubert find out and make fun of him for the rest of his miserable life. “Let’s go with the scarf instead. Far more practical.”

Bernadetta shivers. “I-If you’re going out to town to buy materials, p-please don’t tell me you’re bringing me along…”

Linhardt frowns. “Why would I need to? You could just lend me some.”

“You… Me… I-I don’t…”

“Actually, why don’t you just knit it for me?” he pretends to muse. “I don’t have to do any work, and I’m sure the quality will be much better if left to your hands. Anyway, please deliver to my room by tomorrow.”

“Linhardt!” Bernadetta wails. “D-Don’t tease me! After all we’ve been through!”

Linhardt tries the dueling method Petra had suggested, after making Ferdinand promise to go easy on him—unfortunately, Linhardt hadn’t been expecting his wind spell to hit _that_ hard, and Ferdinand ends up sprawled on the floor of the training grounds. In the next round, Ferdinand gets his revenge via lance to the legs, and Linhardt lies on the floor uselessly for another ten minutes before he can muster enough energy to stand back up.

Then on one of their early morning walks to the classroom, Linhardt offers his jacket to keep out the cold, but Ferdinand rejects him and says his jogs do wonders with keeping him nice and warm. He offers Linhardt his own jacket in turn, in case he wants to double down because he knows Linhardt just gets _so_ cold, and Linhardt has no choice but to bundle up in two layers of jackets.

So, no, those plans don’t go too well, albeit the jacket had been comfortably warm and smelled of Ferdinand.

“I have done everything even remotely romantic by this point,” Linhardt mutters, kicking a small pile of snow as he walks. The marketplace is crowded with people all doing their Ethereal Moon shopping, and for once he welcomes the noise—it’s one of the best ways to distract himself from his own thoughts. “What _else_ is left to do? I don’t particularly _want_ to actually strip naked for him, especially now that it’s freezing cold.”

Dorothea hums. They’ve only been out a few minutes, but already she’s gotten three different gift bags from three different lovestruck suitors scattered throughout town. Well, two—she had given one to Caspar, upon realizing someone had thought it would be a good idea to gift her a training weight. “You know, I like to consider myself a romantic, but even this situation of yours has me stuck. It’s utterly hopeless.”

“Thank you for telling me. I desperately needed to hear it.”

“You’re quite welcome,” she sings. (Linhardt briefly thinks about serenading Ferdinand. He immediately closes his eyes and resists the urge to ask Caspar from bashing him over the head with a very large rock.) “You know, Ingrid gave me a ring before. How about you try that?”

Linhardt gives her a look. “You want me to _propose_ to him?”

“I never said anything about proposing,” Dorothea says, although the grin on her face says it all. “But isn’t there something inherently romantic about rings? And while you’re slipping it on his finger, perhaps you could profess your love then, for the ultimate experience. Why, I think you could sweep Ferdie off his feet from that.”

“Sounds awful,” Linhardt says. “I don’t think I’d be able to catch him. He’d end up hitting his head on the floor and suffer a concussion.”

“And? You’re a _healer,_ Linhardt.”

“It still sounds awful,” he mumbles. “Besides, he’d probably still think I’ve only got friendly intentions or whatever.” Still, he wonders how Ferdinand would react. Noble and traditional as he is, even someone as dense as him wouldn’t just… _not know_ the implications of a ring. It’s certainly not something one gives to a friend, after all; the thought of giving Caspar a ring with _friendly intentions_ makes Linhardt want to genuinely laugh.

But Ferdinand? Him, Linhardt could imagine giving a ring to. And certainly not for friendly intentions.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Dorothea is wearing the smile she reserves specifically for teasing others. Linhardt sighs and supposes she can use it on him _this_ time; she’s right, after all. “If it makes you feel better, I think it’s a far more normal and reliable method than… trying to duel him.”

“Oh. Don’t tell me you _saw_ that.”

“I saw every pitiful second, Lin. I think I got more exercise done laughing my guts out at you two than actually doing any training myself. Oh, look,” she chirps, pulling him closer towards a nearby stall, “they’re selling rings! Why don’t you pick one out now?”

She drifts off elsewhere after that, leaving Linhardt to stare at the selection of rings for several long minutes with a bored Caspar for company. “What’s taking you so long?” he asks. “Look, this one’s got an orange… thing on it. A gem? It’ll match Ferdinand’s hair, that’s for sure.”

Linhardt hums thoughtfully. “No. It looks like a piece of carrot.”

“Hey, not so bad, right? I bet he likes carrots.”

“None of them are any good,” Linhardt finally concludes, only saying it loud enough for Caspar to hear—he’s not so terrible as to let the merchant hear him. They leave the stall, and Caspar scouts for another jewelry stand while Linhardt looks down at his hands. How big would the ring have to be, he wonders. He had never managed to get a particularly good estimate of Ferdinand’s fingers, for obvious reasons—they’ve never even held hands, after all. Thinking about it, maybe a ring is too much and too fast… maybe Linhardt should think of something else…

“How’d this whole thing even start anyway?” Caspar asks. “I never thought you were the type to fall in love like _this._ ”

“And what is _this,_ pray tell?”

“You know.” Caspar makes a vague hand gesture in the air. “Smitten.”

Linhardt huffs. “I am not _smitten,_ ” he tries to argue, but the protest sounds weak, even to him. Probably because he is, sort of, maybe, just a _bit…_ smitten. “I… suppose it started when he tried pulling me out to train? That’s as far back as I can remember, at least.” Even before that, Linhardt couldn’t deny that Ferdinand is nice on the eyes, all sunshine smiles and striking bright eyes that light up whenever Linhardt comes near.

Caspar looks at him. “I’ve dragged you out for training all the time! You’ve never fallen in love with me. And thank the goddess for that.”

“Well, _yes,_ but…” Linhardt frowns. How had it started? For the life of him, he can’t describe the way he had seen Ferdinand that sunny afternoon—when they had run around the entire monastery and eventually tired out in the reception hall, collapsing on one of the benches there and catching their breaths together, Ferdinand had looked at him, and smiled, and…

_“If you will excuse me, I am going to run even more, so I can catch you next time!”_

He feels his neck warm—that had been around two months ago, hadn’t it? Or three? Hadn’t Ferdinand also started his morning jogs around the same time? Linhardt dearly hopes those two facts aren’t related, because he might lose his head if so. And the way Ferdinand had looked when he said it, as if Linhardt were worth the effort, would always be worth his energy…

So that was how it had started, he thinks—how childish of him, to have been won over with nothing more than that smile.

“Lin? Hey, Linhardt?” Caspar waves a hand in front of his face, and Linhardt blinks slowly as everything comes back into focus. Had he zoned out for that long? “I’m guessing you were daydreaming about him. Ew, that’s kinda gross.”

“Just because _you_ have a working relationship does not mean you can mock me for my lack of one.” Linhardt surveys more of the rings on display, but none of them stand out. Too flashy, too plain, and absolutely none that Ferdinand would genuinely _like._

Caspar flushes. “N-Not my fault Ashe isn’t super dense and thought the violets I got for him were a gift from a friend! Anyway, can’t you find a good enough ring?”

“Mm… no…”

“Huh. Maybe you could get something more personal, then. I bet he’d appreciate that more, Ferdinand’s a total sap.”

“Personal?” Linhardt frowns, idly following behind Caspar as he runs over to a nearby stall selling some forged gauntlets. He doesn’t particularly want to buy a weapon—he doesn’t know the first thing about them, aside from some niche details he only picked up from textbooks because they were interesting—and though he knows Ferdinand favors lances and axes, Linhardt doubts those would make for very special gifts. Once again, he’s not Felix.

Personal… the idea of a ring is still appealing, but if not something market-bought, then—

_Oh._

“I’ve got it,” Linhardt says, catching up to Caspar in time to see his eyes sparkling over a pair of what the tag reads as killer knuckles. He doesn’t hesitate before bringing out his wallet and handing over a handful of gold coins to the merchant, biting back a smile at Caspar’s confounded gaze. “I know what to get him now. But I’ll have to mail my father about this, or head back to Hevring myself.”

“What are you _doing?_ ” Caspar sputters. The merchant takes the gold coins, and a few extra, and hastily shoves the gauntlets into Caspar’s hands before pocketing the change. Linhardt can’t even bring himself to care.

“Oh. Consider that as my thanks. You gave me quite the idea.”

“I can’t accept this!”

“Fine, then it’s my gift for you this Ethereal Moon. That’s custom, isn’t it?”

Caspar sighs and shakes his head, but he’s already looking down at the gauntlets as if assessing how they’d work well in battle, or perhaps how to most effectively use them to smash someone’s head in. “Geez, Lin. I think Ferdinand’s been making you soft.”

Linhardt naps throughout most of the ball—the celebrations for the Garreg Mach Establishment Day are as ostentatious as he had expected, and just watching others dance makes him exhausted.

He had been sharing a table with Caspar, Ashe, and Bernadetta, but the latter had made a hasty retreat to her room after half an hour and the former two had taken to the dance floor, making dreamy faces at each other and generally looking sickening, so Linhardt had fixated his gaze on the table instead. That had led to him feeling sleepy, and then, well, he’s hardly the type of person to stop himself from dozing off.

The chair beside him scrapes against the floor, and Linhardt reluctantly opens his eyes. “Ferdinand?”

“How can you fall asleep even now, Linhardt?” Ferdinand sighs. All the same he takes a seat next to Linhardt, looking at—Linhardt frowns—his _hands,_ of all body parts. His face is right here. “Have you taken part in the celebrations at all?”

“You mean, have I danced?” Linhardt slowly reaches across the table for a glass of water, watching as Ferdinand’s eyes follow his hands. _What on Earth…?_ “If so, I haven’t. Far too much effort, you see, and I think Dorothea is doing enough dancing for the rest of us.”

Ferdinand laughs. “Yes! I don’t believe she’s sat down since this has started. But… you do not wish to dance, Linhardt?”

“Why?” Linhardt yawns, covering his mouth with one hand—and, yes, Ferdinand’s gaze follows still. It’s subtle, sort of, but Linhardt is long used to scrutiny and observation that not much can get past him anymore. “Are you offering?”

Ferdinand shoots out of his seat. “I would love to.”

The unexpected seriousness and sincerity in his voice has Linhardt faltering—he accepts Ferdinand’s extended hand without thinking, and feels his face warm at the touch. His hand is rougher, littered with weapon calluses and so unlike Linhardt’s own softer, smoother skin of a healer who’s only known magic and halfhearted sword training sessions—and Linhardt is seized with the terrible, near-irresistible urge to bring Ferdinand’s hand closer to his face, wants to know how it would feel if he were to caress his cheek.

Then he blinks, and Ferdinand is pulling him out to the dance floor, adjusting their positions into the typical one for ballroom dancing. Linhardt shifts into it automatically, years of dance tutoring from his childhood taking over, and only realizes that he’s in the leading position when the music starts and he has to actually move. “You like dancing?” Linhardt asks, desperate to fill up the silence.

“I am not opposed to it?” Ferdinand responds, although it comes out sounding more like a question. He can’t seem to meet Linhardt’s eyes, gaze flitting from point to point before eventually settling on a spot somewhere on his right cheek. Good enough, Linhardt supposes. At least he’s not fixating on his hand anymore.

The hand he’s currently holding. Oh, goddess. Had Ferdinand wanted to hold his hand? Is that why he had been staring so much at it? Linhardt can feel his stomach twisting itself up, because it’s so _impossible,_ so much like another delusional daydream, and yet…

“My father ensured I had only the best education on all things noble,” Ferdinand barrels on, and Linhardt tries to tune him back in amid the buzzing in his head. “I received tutoring on horse riding, and swordsmanship, and managing territories, and—of course, ballroom dancing, for whenever we had to attend important events much like this one—er, how about you, Linhardt?”

“Like I said, I am not… fond of it.” The music swells, and Linhardt sees couples dipping each other all around them. On a whim, he moves his feet with what little knowledge he had retained from those dance lessons, and has to scramble to catch Ferdinand when he moves fluidly down. “ _Ferdinand._ What are you doing.”

“Following your lead!” Ferdinand says, still looking up at Linhardt. The height difference between them is barely significant, just two centimeters’ worth of distance, but—Linhardt swallows.

It’s usually been Ferdinand looking down at him, whether because Linhardt’s sleeping on the grass or exhausted from a spar. For Linhardt to be looking down at Ferdinand now, their faces perhaps a bit too close to one another’s than the dance move required—it makes his heart jump into his throat and refuse to settle back down until Ferdinand coughs and rights himself back into their box-step. “You moved into the position for it,” he says. “So I… followed.”

“You seem to like following me,” Linhardt dryly remarks. “Even to the ends of the monastery just for a training session.”

Ferdinand draws himself up. This is probably why Linhardt always forgets he’s taller than him. “I take you very seriously, Linhardt! I would follow you to the ends of the continent, if you so asked!”

The words ring loud in Linhardt’s head, sinking deep into his heart and finding home in the hollows of his bones. “And if I didn’t ask?”

“I would ask you myself, if you wanted me with you,” Ferdinand replies, easily, without a thought, without so much as a hint of hesitation. He looks at Linhardt, meeting his eyes at last, and Linhardt wants to crumple under the full weight of the trust he can see in there. “And I would surely hope you say yes.”

Linhardt stares, registers everything around him—from the smile on Ferdinand’s face to the shine of his eyes to the exact shade of his hair to the warm fingers intertwined with his own—and feels the immediate, visceral urge to get out of the suddenly too hot, too cramped building. “Ferdinand,” he says, and this time he thinks the way he says Ferdinand’s name is different somehow, “come with me somewhere?”

Ferdinand tilts his head a little. The music slows to a stop, but Linhardt had long since stopped focusing on the dance. “Anywhere. Ah, but we must be able to get back here before the ball ends! I promised everyone a dance tonight, and I would hate for someone to think I have forgotten.”

Linhardt snorts in amusement. “Yes, of course, whatever you like. But please, let’s go.”

As Linhardt had half-expected, the Goddess Tower is littered with couples all hoping to get in on the romantic atmosphere some decrepit old tower provides. Ferdinand figures out where Linhardt is leading him only a few minutes in and squawks something along the lines of, “Why there? What on Earth is there for us?” but Linhardt only has to give him a pleading look and Ferdinand sighs and relents.

It takes a while for them to find a spot relatively far away from the rest of the students, and by the time Ferdinand locates an unoccupied area with a single window to let the moonlight in, Linhardt’s already exhausted—he slumps against the wall and stares blankly up at Ferdinand. “I needed a break,” he says, as simply as possible. “Too much activity is… a bit… well, I’m sure you understand.”

Ferdinand’s brow furrows, but he sits next to Linhardt anyway, after meticulously brushing dirt off the spot on the floor. “I do. It becomes too much, does it not? Everything, everywhere at once. It is… overwhelming.”

“Do you feel that way, too?”

He looks away. Linhardt follows his gaze—it’s fixed on the shafts of moonlight coming through the window. “Often,” Ferdinand murmurs, voice much lower than Linhardt is used to hearing from him. “As a noble, I have… a number of responsibilities I must be aware of. And to be the next Duke Aegir, to succeed my father… it is my duty, yes. But quite a heavy one, and one I do not always know if I am capable of fulfilling.”

Linhardt says nothing. He hears so much about Ferdinand’s noble duties and everything, and he suspects many other people have heard much the same, but he’s never heard Ferdinand speak of how those must be a burden, too. “I understand,” he eventually responds. “I know you think me lazy or whatever—”

“I do not!” Ferdinand cries, the sound far too loud in the silent room. “I could never, Linhardt! The very idea is preposterous—”

“You can stop shouting anytime now,” Linhardt sighs.

“Ah. Yes. My apologies. Er, please go on. But do not for one second believe I think that of you!” Ferdinand frowns. He looks like a puppy trying its best to look intimidating, which is just sort of… adorable. “Irresponsible, yes. Lethargic, often. But not lazy!”

Linhardt scratches his cheek. “Relax. You’ve made your point. Alright, so I know you think me _irresponsible,_ ” he continues, “but my father is also always… trying to dictate my future, I suppose. I’m to inherit his territory and title, to pass on my Crest, to do this and that and a million other things…” He shakes his head. “You fear being unable to live up to your own expectations, don’t you? As for myself, I don’t have any. I just want to be free. To lie under the trees and soak up the sunlight filtering through. Perhaps that’s irresponsible of me, but it’s a dream I can’t seem to let go of.”

“It—It isn’t irresponsible!” Ferdinand argues, leaning forward, nearly pushing his face up against Linhardt’s. Linhardt has to momentarily close his eyes and take several deep breaths to keep himself from blacking out. “Oh, well—maybe a bit irresponsible. But it can’t be helped, that you feel this way yet were born into the duty of a noble. Life can be… unfair, that way.” Ferdinand sits back, resting a warm hand atop Linhardt’s cold one. “Rather irresponsible of life, actually.”

“Irresponsible of life?”

“Yes! To assign people to duties they dislike. Or—Or to let a number of injustices happen in this world, really! For instance, commoners, the way they are treated, the way they are forced to live—does it not fill you with disgust at the state of our government?”

Linhardt stares at Ferdinand’s indignant frown, and coughs out a laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite so worked up, Ferdinand. It’s almost endearing, especially considering you’re certainly right.”

“Oh.” Ferdinand blinks, and if the moonlight isn’t playing tricks on Linhardt’s eyes, color has risen to his cheeks. “Is that a compliment?”

“If you want it to be. But listen—I didn’t ask you to come here with me to talk about politics.” Linhardt sticks a hand in his uniform pocket and retrieves the box, anxiety curdling in his gut as Ferdinand watches curiously. “I wanted to give you this.”

He thumbs the box open. Moonlight illuminates the curling, curving lines of the Crest of Cethleann engraved on the ring nestled within.

“This is the ring my father gave my mother, when he promised her happiness,” Linhardt says, speaking slowly to force the stutter out of his voice. “When she died, she entrusted it with me. It’s been passed down in our family for generations now, and I… want you to have it.”

Ferdinand looks up at him reverently. “This… for me? But—why?”

“Why?” Linhardt wrinkles his nose. “Do I _need_ to tell you my reasons?”

“I cannot take such a lavish gift from a friend!” Ferdinand exclaims. “After all, a noble—”

“Ferdinand,” Linhardt says, the word _friend_ unleashing some kind of screeching banshee within him, “I am in love with you.”

Ferdinand goes perfectly still. Linhardt almost wants to check if he’s breathing, but frankly Linhardt doesn’t even know if he himself is breathing, and he can already feel the dizziness starting up, so he starts speaking again as quickly as possible, to recite all the words he had prepared before he presumably passes out.

“You mentioned following me to the ends of the continent, earlier,” he babbles, staring down at the ring in his hands. It glimmers teasingly up at him, almost mockingly. “I—I don’t want that. I don’t want to run away from you, or for you to chase after me. Do you remember the flowers I gave you, some months ago? The cosmos flowers? They mean ‘walk with me hand in hand.’ So—that is what I’m asking, Ferdinand. I want us to walk hand in hand, side by side, togeth—”

“I cannot accept this!” Ferdinand cries.

Linhardt has no idea how to describe the pain that constricts around his chest like a snake, curled so tight that it squeezes the air out of his lungs and the life out of his heart. “You… can’t?” he repeats. _After everything you said, after the way you looked at me, after taking my hand and dancing with me and waking me up every morning and reminding me of how sunlight feels like—you can’t?_

“I do not have my own ring to exchange!” Ferdinand says, surging forward to clasp Linhardt’s hands in his own. The warmth is explosive, chasing the evening chill away so quickly and suddenly that Linhardt’s head spins once more. “Please! Please wait just a bit longer, Linhardt! If I am to take this ring now without having my own on your fingers, I would never be able to face my own shame! I only need to write to my father for our family ring, and I am sure it shall arrive by the next day!”

“Are you…” Linhardt stares. With a start of realization, he remembers he has to breathe to keep living, and he inhales a lungful of sweet oxygen before speaking again. “Are you serious? Ferdinand, really? You could have _started with that._ ”

“I may have momentarily stopped generating coherent thoughts when you spoke,” Ferdinand meekly says. “Please forgive me. I am also completely and utterly in love with you as well. Please forgive me for that, too.”

For the third time in as many minutes, Linhardt feels his head whirl in place. “I think I may be about to, ah, faint.”

“What!”

“Please, not so loud.”

“Time and time again I have told you about your sickly constitution and how that could be improved by a bit more training, Linhardt, if you had only listened to me—”

“I am always listening to you,” Linhardt finally manages, even if just focusing on Ferdinand’s endearingly concerned face is as difficult as staying awake during class is. “Just not for all the usual reasons.”

Ferdinand flushes an embarrassing shade of red. “You… D-Do not say such things…”

“Or what? Will you fall in love with me?”

“Do not tease me either! I receive enough of this treatment from Hubert!” Ferdinand whines.

Linhardt gawks. “ _Hubert?_ ”

“Yes! I accidentally mentioned your name with perhaps a bit too much emotion to conceal, and then when he looked at me strangely I found myself confiding in him all my, ah…” Ferdinand averts his gaze from Linhardt’s, his blush growing darker. “My… yearnings, I suppose you could say… in any case, ever since then, the scoundrel absolutely refuses to let up on me! Always looking at me whenever I happen to stare at you—please forget I said that—oh, once he even imitated your voice and spoke from behind me and I whirled around shouting your name, I was humiliated for weeks—”

Linhardt thinks, vaguely, about all the times he had bemoaned about his misfortunes to Hubert, and all the other man did was nod and snark when he had _known,_ the _entire time._ Oh, they are going to have _words_ after this. “If it makes you feel any better, he did much the same for me.”

“As soon as I see him again,” Ferdinand says, voice firm with determination, “I shall challenge him to a duel. I have been working hard to combat his dark magic, and I feel I have finally developed a foolproof technique.”

Linhardt sighs and extends his hands, revealing the ring again—Ferdinand squeaks and seems to almost shy away from the sight of it. “You truly won’t take it?” Linhardt asks. “A little embarrassing, don’t you think, to have your promise ring rejected.”

“Promise ring…” Ferdinand swallows and looks down, then vehemently shakes his head. “I implore you to wait just a few more days, Linhardt. My pride as a noble—no, above that—my love for you,” he says, without a hint of shyness, “prevents me from accepting this right now until I can give you my own family ring in exchange. I will not rest easy until I know it is on your finger.”

“I thought you’d say that.” Linhardt closes the box; then, after a moment’s thought, leans forward to tuck the box into Ferdinand’s uniform pocket. Ferdinand lets out a small noise of surprise, but thankfully doesn’t protest. “You keep it, then,” Linhardt tells him. “But don’t wear it yet, until I’ve got yours, too. A compromise.”

Ferdinand nods. “A… A compromise. Yes. I can do that. Oh, Linhardt…”

“What is it?” Linhardt leans even closer until he can rest his head comfortably on Ferdinand’s shoulder in a semi-hug—even now too much physical contact threatens to overwhelm him, but this much is enough, the sharing of their warmth. He wonders, vaguely, how Ferdinand’s ring would look like, and he hopes it has the Crest of Cichol on it.

“You will wait, won’t you?” Ferdinand asks. His voice is soft again, hopeful and fearful at once. “You will not leave me?”

Linhardt contemplates his choices for a moment, then leans back to face Ferdinand properly. His brows are drawn together in worry, but more than that, the way the moonlight shines on the side of his face just so is making Linhardt’s stomach do several sickening jumping jacks. “Ferdinand,” he says, enunciating each syllable as clearly as possible, “I would like to kiss you now.”

A pause. “Oh,” Ferdinand breathes, as if only then realizing Linhardt had been waiting for permission. “Alright. Yes. Please do. Go on. Er, what exactly am I supposed to say in this situation—”

“That’s good enough,” Linhardt tells him, and leans in.

If Dorothea were here, she would probably scoff at them and declare that can barely be classified as a kiss. And Linhardt supposes she might be right—it’s chaste and brief, a modest meeting of their lips, but it’s the first taste of Ferdinand that Linhardt has ever gotten. Sort of like citrus, he thinks, sharply sweet but also so very soft, and his heart trembles at the harsh intake of breath Ferdinand does. “Linhardt,” he sighs against his mouth, one hand coming up to touch his hair for the shortest of seconds—then the touch is gone again, and Linhardt finds himself chasing the warmth before he recollects his thoughts into something halfway resembling sane.

“I’m not leaving you. I’ve waited long enough, you know,” Linhardt says. One of his own hands comes up to touch Ferdinand’s cheek, and he shivers when Ferdinand twines their fingers together and presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist. “I can wait a little longer.”

 _Honestly,_ Linhardt thinks, smiling as Ferdinand’s lip wobbles and he leans forward for another kiss, _I’d wait a countless early mornings for you._

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: [THEIR LIBRARY DATE!!](https://twitter.com/sand_runes/status/1248853054880985091) thank you so much ru 😭
> 
> thanks for reading!! follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/featherxs) for more ferdihardt brain rot


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